Six Days
by TigerLofu
Summary: It was just a regular weekday for Altaïr, when he learns the hard way that maybe he was a little too cocky in trying to take on Talal's men. What will the slaver do now that he has an assassin in his grip? Slash, slavery and humiliation


The first thing he noticed was the pounding in the back of his head

The first thing he noticed was the pounding in the back of his head. For a moment he was grateful he was on the floor, because he certainly wouldn't be able to stand up with his head swimming like this. Then, when he remembered where he was, he wanted to curse. It was about at this point when a boot connected with his stomach. The thugs blurred into Altaïr's vision and he tried to push himself to his feet. His sword was knocked out of his hand and he had problems keeping his balance, but he had to fight. The assassins never gave up, you won or died trying. But he couldn't help but to groan when a blade carved a nice deep gush over his back that would probably need stitching when he got his sorry ass back to the bureau. He had just finished that thought, it was weird sometimes how time slowed down like this, when something bashed into his skull, just as an arrow burrowed itself in his shoulder. The world went red for a moment, then black. The last thing Altaïr remembered was thinking 'so this is how my targets feel'.

When Altaïr woke up he was stripped down to his pants, hands securely tied behind his back and his weapons was gone. There were voices around him. He could recognize Talal, the target, and there were others, and he could swear they were speaking English and not Arabic. He tried to turn and look at who it was Talal was talking too, but one of the thugs saw him move and came over with an evil grin.

"Look at this, the dog finally decided to wake up." The thug grabbed Altaïr's hair and pulled him up a little to face him. Altaïr groaned as the wounds on his chest reopened and started to bleed again. The thug chuckled "You don't like that, do you dog?" Then he pulled Altaïr back further into an arch and racked his too long, in Altaïr's opinion, nails down the assassin's chest, making sure to dig into the wounds. The wordless howl that escaped Altaïr's lips drew more thugs and soon he was covered in bruises and reopened wounds. His face was covered in spit and when one of the thugs pulled down his pants Altaïr wanted to cry. He hadn't done that since the night after they cut his finger off.

It was a cold and surprisingly lonely night. Altaïr had spent many nights alone, but up until this point, not one had he spent chained to a wall in a slavers warehouse, covered in blood and piss. It wasn't until the last guard was gone his pride decided to run and hide and he had slumped in his chains, wishing this was all a bad dream. The old beggar in the cage next to him reached over and fed Altaïr a few bread crumbs with a kind smile and a whispered "try to be strong, you'll need it". Altaïr wasn't sure the words were meant as reassuring or not, but they sure as hell wasn't right now. He knew he was doomed. If he was lucky he would be sold to a farm or a mine, simply because he was a young man able to work. Then what would he have? A few years, five at most, of hard back braking labor. Never again climb the high churches and minarets, and then the few moments of total freedom as he plunged to the ground that he loved so much. It would all be lost forever.

When the morning light came it was no comfort, with it came Talal's thugs. Altaïr was quickly stripped naked and his hands were placed in manacles and he was chained to a ring in the floor in the middle of the large room he had been fighting in yesterday. The light even filtered in through the same opening in the ceiling. He was too busy glaring at the nearest thug to notice the bucket of ice cold water until it hit. They just laughed at the string of curses that emitted from the assassin and fetched another bucket. Soon he was shivering in the still cold morning air, the water, now pink with old blood, in a puddle around him.

"Oh look at the poor wet dog." One of the thugs mocked "Too bad Talal got a buyer for him already. He could be fun to play with." The thug ruffled Altaïr's hair, much like you did a dog or a mule. Altaïr growled and snapped at the hand, hoping to bite a finger up. Instead the man just pulled his hand back and slapped Altaïr, hard. It might have been that he was cold and wet, maybe it was the embarrassment of being treated like a child or an animal, but it burned more than he could remember any slap before this one had.

Half an hour later, judging by the light on the floor, Altaïr's cheek was still stinging. He had mostly dried of, except for his hair, but he was still cold. He felt like he could kill for a cup of steaming warm qahwa. Instead what he got was approaching footsteps. Several sets of them. He could tell more or less where they came from but thanks to the shadows on the upper walkways of the warehouse he had no idea who they were until they were closer.

"Here he is. A member of the Hashshasin. He just walked in here yesterday, bold as an eagle, begging to be taught a lesson." Well that was clearly Talal, even if Altaïr had not recognized the voice the words gave it away.

"And you want me to do it for you?" The French accent made Altaïr pause, he knew this voice he was sure of it, but where?

"Well, your dislike for them is well known and I hoped you would find it amusing. Please accept him as a gift, a token of friendship."

"What? Just like that… When you could make a small fortune on him? What is wrong with him?"

"Um… Nothing….ok…He tried to bite one of the guards. And he does probably need to be constantly chained."

"So you are giving me a useless slave."

"Useless for most people, as I said I thought you would find training him amusing."

"I guess I will."

Altaïr hated the ride that followed. Gagged, blindfolded and bound he was stuck in a small wooden crate. It was uncomfortable and soon his muscles were screaming from being stuck in painful positions. Then he started to notice the heat from outside. It wasn't so bad when you were able to move and find shade during the worst hours. Inside this crate he couldn't exactly find shade. Nor was there anything to drink. Salty sweat stung his eyes and he began to long for the shivering cold he had experienced earlier that morning.

Much later, when he was half delirious, the crate was opened and someone dragged him out. He heard something being muttered in French before he was dropped on the dirt. He was hardly given any time to regain the breath that had been knocked out of him before a hard boot connected with his stomach. He wanted to reach up and protect his head but his hands where tied. Thankfully they didn't seem to go for his head. Altaïr wasn't afraid of dying; if he was he would never have survived Myslaf. Being beaten to death while bound and defenseless was not exactly a dignified way of going. He, or rather his blade, had a date with Talal's neck that Altaïr want more than ever to keep. Within seconds darkness clouded the edges of his consciousness. The dehydration and beatings he had gotten over the last day was too much for his body to handle. It was almost a calm sigh that escaped him when he slipped into unconsciousness.

He was surprised to find himself covered by a soft blanket when he woke up. He had not expected that. Then again he hadn't expected to wake up at all. His hands were loose but his weapons were still gone. He slowly opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings. There were three others in the small room. The young boy jumped to his feet from the stool he had been sitting when he saw that Altaïr. The younger of the two armed men by the door reached for his sword and barred a good 3 inches of the blade. The older man smiled slightly and raised his hand to stop the younger man. The man's blue eyes and dirty blond hair caused Altaïr to pause. That was not common, not even among the English, nor was the proficiency with which he spoke Arabic. "Our orders are to kill you if you harm the boy or try to escape." There was a slight accent to the words, but it was not a French one. Altaïr nodded slowly; there was no way he could take the two templars on, especially unarmed like this.

"I understand templar." He had meant the name as an insult and the disgust shone through his words. The bold man merely smiled and bowed his hands a little. Though it was a rather sad looking smile. The boy held a cup to his lips and spoke in a soft voice

"Don't worry, it's only water."

The next time Altaïr woke, he was alone with the blond templar. But his hands were bound. He raised an eyebrow at the templar.

"You don't trust me to keep my word?"

"Oh I do. De Sable on the other hand." Altaïr winced at the idea of being held captive by that man. The blond templar noticed the wince and Altaïr thought he saw pity in the blue eyes. "I am sorry, assassin, but there is really nothing I can do."

The days that followed made Altaïr wish he was dead. The beatings and whippings hurt, but it was not nearly as bad as the names. The taunting jokes and rude suggestions had him quickly avoiding soldiers when ever he could. But he would gladly spend all his days with the soldiers if it would keep him from de Sable. Within ten minutes of being near the man Altaïr had decided the man was a devil sent from hell to punish mankind. He certainly acted like it. On their first meeting the man had gagged Altaïr, bent him over his knee and giving him a spanking. Altaïr had not been spanked since he was a little boy and not even often then. The tears that had formed in Altaïr's eyes had not been from the pain, but from the humiliation of such treatment in front of the laughing and cheering soldiers. Altaïr had blinked the tears away, refusing to let the men know their jokes and comments got to him.

Altaïr was abruptly torn from his thoughts as a hard slap flung him across the room. He had been dozing, his head resting on de Sable's armrest. He had been kneeling on the cold floor, naked. There were fires in the braziers gave off a little heat but Altaïr still had goose bumps. The cold just made him all the more aware of the pain in his knees. A few hours earlier he had been sure nothing would feel more painful than his side. One of the soldiers had planted a steel toed boot in his side when he had caused the daily inspection of the troops to come to a halt. He had not been able to keep up with de Sable's horse; it had been especially hard because of his tied hands. And he had stumbled and lost his footing. That had resulted in a whole new set of jokes. _'I thought you assassin dogs were supposed to be graceful.'_ Somehow hearing those words from de Sable had burned worse than the jokes and remarks normally did. Maybe it was the reminder of what he had been only a week before, or maybe it was that he had lost it so thoroughly.

But now his knees ached more than his ribs and he winced as he pushed himself of the floor to crawl back to de Sable. He cursed the need for sleep, but he was so tired. They still had him chained, but he highly doubted that it was needed by now. He didn't think he could walk anywhere yet alone run or fight. He had not slept since the time with the blond templar. They had found some way of keeping him awake, until he felt like the walking dead. When he was over by de Sable he bowed his head slightly, he didn't want anymore pain. He was too tired to fight, too tired not to give up.

"Oh no, you don't." Fingers, Altaïr knew they were de Sables by the strong grip, wrapped around his neck. Thumb and forefinger digging into his flesh just behind his jaws. Altaïr could not help but whimper, and look up into the man's cold eyes. "How dare you sleep without permission?" Altaïr looked away quickly, he hated himself for it but he feared what he saw in the man's eyes. Cold hard hate and a desire to hurt. He barked some orders in French as he pushed Altaïr to his feet. The men quickly cleared the table of what had been left of the generals' supper and one of them left the room. De Sable pushed Altaïr over the table so only his toes were touching the ground. Two of the generals grabbed Altaïr's arms and held him down. Something as slammed down in front of Altaïr and he opened his eyes to see what it was. Then he wished he hadn't. It was a whip made of thin leather strips with knots at the end. He lifted his eyes and saw de Sable's cruel smile. "This won't stop until you beg and call me Master."

Altaïr could feel the blood trickling down his legs. His whole back side had flared in pain, gone numb and then flared again. He tasted blood in his mouth from biting his lip to keep from screaming. He had given up hiding his tears what felt like hours ago. There had been a brief break where de Sable had given the whip over to someone else and he was now watching Altaïr. Someone had gripped Altaïr hair and forced him to look up at de Sable. He wished he could just a have been looking at the table. Looking at de Sable reminded him of what the man had said. Calling de Sable master couldn't be so bad, could it? It would stop the whipping and maybe earn him a bed. The only thing keeping from doing so was his pride, but what good was his pride doing now? He licked his lips; he had to wet them twice before any words came.

"Please make it stop, Master." His voice sounded weaker and more pleading than he had intended, and for a moment he was afraid that de Sable hadn't heard him. But then the man lifted a hand and the whipping stopped.

"What was that, slave?"

"Please Master, I can't take anymore."

"Good, good slave." De Sable grinned and reached over and stroked Altaïr's head.

And thus the eagle was caged.


End file.
